


Coda

by standbyme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbyme/pseuds/standbyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in Oklahoma, Dean hits the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda

(metaphorically, physically, it doesn’t really even matter anymore, does it)

He knew what he was getting into when he picked the fight, but god, wouldn’t it have felt good to have landed a hit.

Dean doesn’t catch breaks though, and he needs to start remembering that.

He lays sprawled on the concrete of some parking lot and his phone has shot out like a bullet from his pocket and the asshole who punched him has already made off with the cash he had on him. Dean doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself.

Sober enough to feel the hurt, drunk enough to lay there stupidly, Dean let’s his cheek rest on the pavement, eyes half lidded. Two years ago he would have kicked the douche bag into next week, but now…

_But now –_

The words hang like crooked picture frames in his head, which is pounding so hard he doesn’t know how he can think in the first place.

He pushes his palms down, feels the grit of the parking lot dig into his skin, and heaves himself half way up before beaching himself again. His legs sit uselessly behind him, too heavy to lift. Dean breathes through the shifting colors the neon signs are swirling into and tries to figure out how the fuck he plans on crawling to the Impala.

He’s so _tired_.

“Dean.” Cas’s appearance isn’t expected, but Dean’s out of his mind, so giving a shit isn’t high on his list of priorities. Let him appear wherever the fuck he wants. He’s gone. Something clenches in Dean’s stomach, a raw nerve rubbed till it spits sparks all over his insides.

He ignores the patient voice beside him and tries to focus on the phone that he can see lighting up under the Kia. It’s Sam, he can tell, even from here. Who else would be calling? He only has Sam now.

“Dean, get up.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Dean slurs, floundering a bit, cheek scraping along the ground. He’s belly down, like some kind of dog, and he’s too exhausted to do a thing about it.

“Dean!” Cas yells this time, and Dean laughs. He laughs, tongue lolling on his split lip, laughs till he has to roll over, run fingers over his heaving stomach.

“ _GO **FUCK**_ _YOURSELF.”_ He repeats, nearly screaming it over the spastic gives of his diaphragm as he tries to switch gears from laughing to crying out. He shudders, his body forfeiting control, betraying him yet again. His leg twitches and he jerks on the ground, squeezing eyes shut against the image of Cas staring down at him, all sallow skin and shoes leaking muddy water.

Cas is silent, but he stays.

Dean stands, staggers, and falls into the Kia before pawing for the phone that he shoves in his pocket. His legs give out a moment later and he’s back to square one – hands, knees, pavement.

“Dean.”

“You’re dead, you hear me? You’re gone. You’re _gone_.” Dean spits, harshly, at the earth. “You get the fuck out of my head.” He bends backwards, teetering, one arm bracing himself on that ugly ass Kia and he starts to stand again. He knows he shouldn’t drive. He shouldn’t even try to get up. Every muscle he’s got is protesting movement, begging him to just _lie down again_ , back on the ground, where people can step over him.

He’d do it. He’ll sink that low – hell, he’s halfway there.

But the funny thing is that Dean Winchester can’t lie down – he can’t sleep till the world is safe and there’s no one else to do it, to clean up the mess, so Dean tries to stand again, lurching forward into the apparition his mind has conjured for the evening. He stalks through Castiel’s incorporeal form which doesn’t even flicker but follows his footsteps to the Impala. Dean fumbles with his keys, nearly scrapes her sleek black side, and then, after a moment, stops. He can barely keep his eyes open, and his forehead is so hot against the cool metal he can almost hear it hiss.

“Why are you here? Why…” Dean whispers, gripping the side of his head, “… _why you…_ ”

“WHY YOU?”

When he turns around, Cas, real or not, is still there – staring at him.

“Dean.” His name breathed through parted lips, the former angels’ hair stuck to his head, slick, and black under the street lights flooding the parking lot.

“Stop saying that!” Dean cries, “THERE’S NOTHING FOR YOU HERE! THERE’S NOTHING! I FUCKED IT UP! DON’T YOU _GET THAT_?”

Cas looks Dean up and down, raises his hand and curls Dean’s palm over the keys.

“Be careful, Dean. You’re heavily intoxicated.”

Dean grinds the heel of his hand into his eyes and then upwards to his hair, exasperated.

“You’re not even real.” He says bluntly, “You’re not even real – fuck I’m sounding like _Sam_.”

Cas tilts his head and shrugs.

“I’m still here, and that’s something.” He adds quietly, and for a moment it’s hard to believe that he isn’t anything but Dean’s Cas, pointedly staring at Dean, trying to get some cryptic thought across. He doesn't smile, but he sounds pleasant enough when he addresses the heap of man that formerly was Dean Winchester.

“What _that_ is, is _sad_.” Dean responds, his body sinking into the Impala, the curve of his spine butting awkwardly on her straight edges. “That’s really sad, because, if you haven’t noticed, it’s all gone to shit.” He looks up at Castiel, at his sloppy-looking suit jacket and white shirt. At least Dean’s mind is accurate.

Dean shrugs, shaking his head in disdain.

“There’s nothing here for you Cas. I lost you.” Dean says again, more firmly, and Dean closes his eyes, because, he has to remember, it’s all in his head.

“You aren’t here anymore. It didn’t…you’re gone.”

When he opens them, Cas has left and everything is right (by definition).

Dean dwells on the pain for a while, on the throb of his head and his bruised hands and the split lip he’s still worrying. Talking has opened it up, and blood oozes out under the tip of his tongue as he worries it.

He’s still tired, but when he sees the blood on his hand from his lip he jerks into the reality that he’s bleeding and he remembers the missed phone call from Sam. His brother is worried – maybe worried enough to take a cab and pick him up.

Dialing the number is a pain though, and Sam is probably asleep by now, so Dean opts to lie down in the back of the Impala, feet on the edge of the window, everything coming loose in one long unhindered groan. Blinking at the dark ceiling before he slips away, Dean thinks about what Cas said – what his mind told Cas to say. It’s not like he ever listened to Cas over other people. Something aches, something deep down, about that - something that resonates ‘ _you should have listened to him’._

It doesn’t matter, because Dean is even worse at listening to himself.

But, he’s in the Impala, isn’t he? Somehow.  
It’s better than sleeping on the concrete.

  
_...that's something_. The stillness says, but Dean doesn't reply.


End file.
